Cor
by njero
Summary: When it comes to exploring new life and new civilizations, Jim has always been the first to put one foot in the grave. McKirk AU


Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or any of the characters associated.

Warnings: Language, violence and minor character death

Beta: I'm in the market. If you're interested, PM me.

Pairing: McKirk

A/N: An index will be added after this story's completion. For those of you who pick this up after it's been finished I suggest you refer to the index as you run into strange, alien terms or creatures for pronunciations, translations, and history. It can be used as a glossary, dictionary and index. For the full experience I suggest you use it as you see fit. For those of you who read it as I write it, who might follow this story from the beginning: good luck and for translations of speak, see the bottom of the page. Please enjoy.

njero's

**Cor**

Jim hasn't felt the pure warmth of sunlight in a long time. Around the filter of leaves overhead he can feel it kissing his skin. Over the sweet whistle of roving birds in the thick of the treetops, he can almost hear it ringing.

His lungs welcome fresh air like a child coming home, achingly expanding to greedily take in as much as his body can bear before anyone in his crew can even consider returning to the recycled pits of the _Enterprise_. Jim loves his ship, he loves her like he loves Riverside, but god how he's missed the breeze.

"What _do_ you think of all this, Spock?"

"I think, Captain, that you should refrain from making direct contact with the contents of this planet without the precautions of your safety suit."

"So you've told me," the jungle floor is a jigsaw puzzle of thick, green ivy snaking ankle-high above the dirt and soil. It takes more effort than Jim will likely ever admit to close the short distance between them. He smiles smartly as he reaches Spock's side, wiggling his eyebrows childishly. "And so you'll tell me again."

Spock raises one, solitary brow and doesn't dignify him with a response, as is his routine.

Jim and his away team are having admittedly more trouble mowing through this chaotic terrain than they would have fighting off a Klingon battleship or creating peace treaties between planets at war. Starfleet has taught them how to eat without offending cultures, how to introduce themselves in foreign languages, and how to build and fly emergency escape pods out of nothing but shoelaces and scrap metal, but it seems Jim and the totality of his crew must have opted out of any course on stepping across hazardously hectic jungle regions. Jim's heard at least six members of his away team trip and hit the ground since they beamed down.

Of course, Jim was the first to give up and drop the extra pounds of safety suit that made him lumber. He discarded the gloves and helmet right after the first atmospheric tests had come out clean, and he hadn't waited around; his curiosity was burning a hole in his stomach and he feared what would become of him should he fail to quench his invariable thirst to boldly go.

The planet started off as a call to attention of an anomaly on their radars, and now Jim's waist deep in jungle greens that remain unidentified in any Starfleet indices. The strange new world is a lot like Earth, in the sense that trees grow from the ground and creepy-crawlers sneak silently in the undergrowth, but Jim's caught enough glimpses of too fast shadows to recognize how bizarre the differences will be when they make themselves known.

Jim and the crew who beamed down with their captain were never prepared for what they found planet side. Monsters, aliens, disease, yes, but not beauty. Not beauty _quite_ like this.

"Captain, should we start recording our findings?" one of the science officers is bent over the waist high roots of an old tree that have curved up in an arch. With a small, metal knife he nips a bit of bark off the wood and admires the underlying textures closely. He pauses in his scrutinizing to await his captain's answer.

"Absolutely, Mr. Anderson," Jim doesn't pay much attention to whatever his crew is doing, instead choosing to grope around in the underbrush for something a little more noteworthy. "Record away, and keep me posted on anything out of the ordinary."

"Out of the ordinary, Captain?" Spock sniffs, straight-faced. Around them is a world out of a children's book. Tarzan vines hang from above tall, looping trees that tower higher than some of the buildings back home. Birds sing unusually high pitched tunes off in the distance that Jim's certain have never been heard by human ears. Soft winds bring the smells of faraway rains that may be colder, darker or thicker than any of Earth's storms. Sunlight from a new galaxy warms an unknown planet and they stand amidst it all.

"Anything more interesting than colorful trees or beetles with extra legs, Mr. Spock."

"You are not about to go gallivanting throughout allegedly hostile territories without a security team, are you Captain?"

Spock looks like he's fighting everything in his nature not to role his eyes when Jim claps him on the back and says, "Of course not, Spock," followed by a cheeky grin and, "gallivanting is for children."

Very few smoky veils of sunlight seep through the canopy of treetops when Jim hikes his way forward. Behind him, the rustling sounds of Spock stepping through thickets echoes his own attempts to steer his way across the crowded mess of shrubs. He doesn't stop or slow when he hears Spock clear his throat, but he does pause for the flutter of foreign wings nearby.

"I find it unwise to stray so far from the rest of the away team."

"They'll be fine."

"Perhaps I should rephrase my suggestion."

"No, I got it." Jim watches wings spread and flutter uneasily against the bark of a nearby trunk. Thick, crusty feathers bristle at the noise he makes as he approaches, and when he steps closer to the brick-brown tint to the tree he can see to whom the wispy wings belong. A mammal, judging by the tufts of fur on its gullet, and the big, round eyes that ogle up at him as he places his head against the trunk.

"It appears to be a bird, or at least a class Aves." Spock watches the frail, little critter from a distance, his face sharp and contrast, but his eyes glimmering quizzically. He has his arms folded behind his back in a triangle to keep himself from reaching out. Jim does not have this discretion.

"Figures you already have it classified," Jim laughs softly. He doesn't break the eye contact he's made with the curious animal. The creature blinks at him queerly, black almond eyes watch as he shifts and follows his lips as they perk and part in a smile. It croaks at him, a sound echoing from deep within in its belly like a soft teddy bear. It reaches for him with hooked wings that flap at him softly as its camouflaged-to-bark back shifts in a tiny tremble.

"It appears their forearms make their wings," Spock notes quietly, "Perhaps the species is closer to a Chiroptera. Fascinating."

The creature bumbles on frail chicken legs a few inches closer to Jim. With the scratch of its fine talons, bits of the bark that can't support its tiny weight flake to the jungle floor. Pellet eyes admire Jim.

"What do you think it eats, Spock?" it doesn't eat the twigs and leaves Jim offers, but it takes them up in a bundle of wing and licks at it with a worm-pink tongue. Clumps of the mess squished between the tree and the critter fall to the floor in a clumsy mess, but there's no reaction from the little eyes as they continue to regard him.

"Perhaps berries or insects, likely fruit." Spock tells him, "It doesn't appear to be carnivorous."

The creature's body is the size of Jim's hand splayed out, but Jim doesn't want to risk laying his palm up against it. He coos to mimic the sound of the critter's squawk, and the fox-face twists in a silent question. The creature's attention doesn't linger on him much longer as a buzzing insect blows between them, scooping the little vermin's eyes away from Jim's as it tracks the beetle's movements.

Fox-face twitches as it watches the bug swarm in circles around its tree trunk and Jim holds still so he doesn't disturb the scene. The little bat bursts off the bark in a flop of wings and fur, landing hopping on the roots of the tree as it joyfully gloats over its prey. With a crunch of teeth against a smooth shell, the critter is feasting. It waddles around as it chews between messy canines and a sloppy tongue, resting on hind legs only when it pokes around in the shell. Fox-face holds its meal between delicate digits as it skips away from Jim and Spock, slinking off into the bushes. Jim follows.

"Please tell me you don't intend to pursue."

"Well, then I'd be lying to you Spock, and where would our relationship be then?" Jim leaps after fox-face, but doesn't get as far as he would hope before he's driven to look back and smirk at his first, and he meets a disapproving stare.

"Captain, before we go off _gallivanting_," Spock slips in sharply, "shouldn't we at least inform the rest of the away team where we will be?"

Jim smiles presumptuously when he hears the snapping of twigs behind them and the call of the away team as they finally gather themselves and catch up. He watches Spock for a moment, not sure if the crew's eventual arrival will quail Spock's look of condemnation or sooth his bitterness at the idea of Jim's desire to keep exploring.

Stepping up to a wall of greens, Jim keeps his eyes on Spock, "Sounds to me like they at least have some idea." Gathering the veil of drooping ivy vines that wall him off from wherever fox-face has wandered off to, he turns to make some dramatic exit and finds a clearing. The clearing is not very large, perhaps the size of the observation deck, but in the middle sits a silent pond.

The pond is clear. Jim can see all the way to the bottom and the crystal clarity of the water works as a mirror into an alien world. Fish, the size of row boats, skim the bottom of the pit with a curtain of bubble-headed jellyfish in tow. Even stories up, on the surface, he can make out in remarkable detail the decorated fins of high-priced eels, their tiny, bobbing heads lugging their tentacle bodies in slow herds. On the surface, before the drop off of an underwater cliff and the racing mazes of stone tunnels, smooth planes of sand swoop thin to meet the water.

Every single species within the deep pool prevail to be as beautiful as they are abstract.

Jim doesn't process the moment his crew mold to his side, but he can hear them gasp at the picture-book image before them. Clicks sound off in a line as his men remove their helmets and join their captain in the feast of fresh air and direct sunlight. They all seem to breathe in together as their safety suits come undone and thud to the ground. The gloves soon follow as Jim's men stroke at the bushes and sleek leaves around them. Delight and exasperation can't stay bottled up as it slips from their lips in the form of unchecked murmurs.

Spock is the last of the crew to remove his headgear and he slips his gloves off with precision, one finger at a time, as he moves to stand at Jim's side. Jim looks over when he feels his friend beside him and he watches Spock battle emotions away from the surface.

"Magnificent. Is that the word you're looking for?"

"Unquestionably."

The ground shifts like sawdust underneath Jim's shoes as he drifts on the break between jungle carpet and the loose blond sand. Closer to the pool, the reflections from what sun has slipped from the canopy above transform the surface into a silver platter.

"How old do you suppose this planet is?"

"Very likely older than Earth. I would have to perform tests for a proper gage, Captain." Spock didn't move with him when he approached the water and still lingers back on the solid soil. His voice still carries to Jim effortlessly. "Judging by the texture to the stones, it appears that the terrain changes often, perhaps every few hundred years. I'd assume temperatures and weather transition, modifying the surface of the planet drastically."

"You got all that in the little time we've been here?" Jim twists to watch his first over his shoulder.

"Well, the process of freeze-thaw is apparent in many of the larger boulders, which is evidence that an ice age occurred in this area within the last thousand years, and the trees, from their shape and size, appear to be several hundreds of years old, unless, of course, nature evolves faster on this planet, however, there are no grounds for that theory just yet."

"And the pond?"

"Ancient. I assume they withstand any terrain change."

"_They_?"

Spock steps forward, finally joining Jim in the sand. He peers at the pool and watches the still shine of water as he explains. "The tunnels near the base of the cavern appear to link with other bodies of water in the area. Further analysis from the _Enterprise_ should give us more information."

Jim uses a distraction in the corner of his eye as an excuse for not having a witty comeback. The rustle in the bushes at the edge of the clearing remind him of fox-face and he bolts over to the line of trees and sifts through the bushes. Jim can actually hear Spock bite his tongue and hold back a barricade of warnings and a scolding or two. He looks back at his first as he tangles his fingers in the skirt of skinny leaves. Grinning like a fool, he keeps his eyes on Spock as he peels the curtain back, only to look down when the rustling, closer now, continues.

"What," Jim's eyebrows shoot up, "the hell?"

Fox-face doesn't wait behind the brush, nothing that could be categorized like the little critter waits for him. What waits in the tent of greens is the stump of a bloated shrub. Its mutated leaves are shriveled like an aged fruit, its swollen belly juts out like the back of a porcupine. It shrinks on itself when voices runs through it in vibrations and his footsteps near, and Jim's head spins around just in time to see the boney branches still.

"Hey, I think this-"

Jim's not sure where it came from but he's trying to see through a maple syrup gloss. He fumbles where he's squatting at the force that the gunk hits him right between the eyes and feels the soft grass of the clearing under his back. He tries to guess whether the stinging burn that's spreading between his temples is from the slap of the paste or something in it before Spock makes it to his side, but his shocked swears come unwelcome to a tense air. Jim goes rigid in response.

Spock's fingers are digging into his shoulder, and Jim uses the warmth as an anchor to sit up. He reaches up to ball his knuckles against his eyes, to wipe the molasses from his face, and reedy shouting, as thin as sheets, bumbles up into the stressed atmosphere. What is that, French? Kriosian? Jim stops stalk still at the foreign words and the way Spock's hands fist on his back sets him on edge.

"Captain," Spock murmurs, "Are you compromised?"

Jim wants to rub the gunk from his face but every time he lifts a fist the shouting starts up again, the gritty clank of teeth on edge following the petite language on a gruff tongue. His eyelashes are crusting around the syrup, but he can make out the shapes of his crew and how the shadows of their elbows bend at their waist to meet weapons. Further than his men, in the trees, is a line of large beasts who blend in and out of the jungle like extra trees. The faces of gruesome monsters shiver around the stalks of branches and the crowns of young trees. They morph in and out of the shroud as they shift closer and withdraw.

"I'm fine." Jim speaks low to Spock, keeping his words right at the front of his mouth. He can feel the tension like he's drowning in it, but he has no clues of its origins save for the creatures now hugging the very edge of the trees' shadows. "Care to catch me up?"

"Were you not attacked?"

"Yeah, by that Brussels sprout over there." Jim juts a finger over to the bushes accusingly. "Damn, I can't even see," the strange language strikes up again fiercely and phasers charge, "Some plant just threw up on me."

"It appears to be of the gelatinous divergent." Spock remarks thoughtfully as his hands move closer to his captain's face, only to freeze as the barking starts once more.

"Who's making that noise? What language is that?" Jim tries to peer through the olive lens of treacle and can faintly make out the silhouette of one of the faces peeling away from the others, much to their discomfort, and gliding into a veil of sunlight. Through the painful haze, Jim can see the smear of colors that induce many frightening features. The monster's thick jaw sports a hearty scowl, its teeth razor-sharp and eyes round and bulging. Musky greens and swampy grays mix together to make the face that holds itself out in the ray of rich sun.

Wires draw back like whispers.

"They've drawn weapons, Captain." Spock supports Jim while he stands, latching long, snippy fingers around the angle of his elbow. Jim slips his shoes under him to keep himself upright as Spock's support retreats.

"Weapons? What kind of weapons?" Jim murmurs as he pinches his eyelids until his eyelashes touch. He peers into the murky shadows of running colors. He still can't make out much of the monsters, as their gruesome expressions mold to the sheltered undergrowth.

"Get back!" one of Jim's men says, voice threatening, demanding the forerunner to withdraw. The other members of the away team stiffen further at the shout, jumping at the fear that laces the words. The creature that still sits in the sun growls deep in a husky throat like a disgruntled cat and the young men and woman of the _Enterprise_ startle. The monster steps from the sunlight, closer to them, on two thin legs, reaching out experimentally.

One of the men, now under the nose of a daunting beast that towers half a foot above his head, draws out his phaser and lifts it to his chest protectively. The creatures of the forest are almost the same size as Jim's crew, their shadows akin in height and width, and side by side the two almost appear to be identical in make and model.

"Stay b-back." Jim's crewmember orders. His phaser shakes madly with his clattering teeth.

"_Ren tarller!_" a shadow tells the front-liner, "_Genoil, maa saumic._"

The beast passes the crew with little, prudent steps. He holds his arms clear of himself and shrinks, trying to appear disarmed and harmless. The men around him evacuate, stumbling over grounded rocks, drawstring ivy, or their own discarded safety suits in their disordered attempts to obtain a circumference away from the strange being. The beast continues its front forward.

"_Chihra raijice jeahb slyat ghortii dek,_" a native whispers.

"What's going on, Spock."

"We seem to have made contact with natives, Captain."

"Natives?" Jim blurts, "What kind of natives?" He can almost see now. The sap seems to be drying and with the flaking mess comes clarity. The beast that moves like silk through the crowd isn't the beast Jim was sure he was. Around peeling putty, Jim can distinguish the sharp contrast in the difference between sun-kissed skin and the slab of curved wood that makes a menacing mask.

"They appear to resemble a primitive society, however, I can't presume there to be in any evidence of early stages of evolution."

A snap of bush branches spooks one of the red shirts who has his phaser locked on the threat that is still carefully advancing through their assembly. He fires set to stun, as Jim ordered, but luckily the aim is off and another of the officers who has his wits about him is spry enough to throttle the head of the weapon down to face the ground. The shadows of the jungle still dance with panic at the foreign sounds and flashes.

"_Obeffre!_" the shadows echo fiercely, tense and aggressive. Jim can now make out the bones of thick bows, angled tightly at the crew.

"Cease fire! What are you thinking, ensign!" Jim's words call all attention to him, but he prefers it that way when it could be building up on itself in a big, tense cauldron. He orders the red shirt who fired to step down with a wave of his hand and crunches his face up when he finds his cheeks too stiff to face the young officer with a look of objection. All motion in the clearing has been paralyzed by Jim's distinguished tone.

The officer under Jim's stare deflates, shoulders hunching in his efforts to become insignificant. Mercifully, Jim turns his gaze away. Spock steps past Jim, taking over and winding the men down with cold collision while the captain is indisposed.

The monster, now only seen as a cryptic intruder, has halted in the field. With his sight slowly becoming less obstructed, Jim can distinguish the colors that compose a body. Skin, as dark and rich as caramel, has been eclipsed behind the thick wood of a mask and the thin layer of a loose, dark clothes. The top, the shirt, drapes free over solid, able muscle. The material is thin like spider webs and wrinkled with age, but it sits many sizes too big on broad shoulders. The same type of rough string that knots the mask in place holds the open front together. A larger, thicker, slimmer layer lays over the shirt for protection, made durable with the leather pelt of a beast. The wicked face is watching Jim when he meets the twisted, painted eyes. It is the paint of a warrior, but the stranger is no fighter, his weapons, a sleek bow slung over his shoulder and an obedient dagger at his waist, lay dormant and untouched.

Their distinguished visitor stands tall and straight, and Jim, trying to get a better look, moves to swipe the plant's gunk off his face. With two large, fluid steps, the native is closer than he should be and strange fingers encircle the wrist he's pitched towards his eyes, stopping him gently. With the swift movement comes another strained mist or tension. Grips on weapons tighten.

Jim stops moving and watches the hand, four fingers and a thumb, shift against his wrist. The tree sap that's crusted to his face is beginning to burn and his hands try to twitch to the source. The company watches with intense interest, Kirk's crew stiff as boards and the shadows of the forest peering curiously, as the enigma of the forests dips his free hand into a bag Jim only now notices. The strap is fixed on a shoulder, the pack is a deep, storm cloud black and the contents remain a mystery as the top flap claps closed as the stranger's hand doesn't linger. With the hand, the knuckles, the finger prints, comes a simple, silken cloth.

It's one of the softest materials he's ever felt being brushed tenderly over the rash that's seared around Jim's eyes like a mask of his own. It comes off like half dried glue, but it's never rubbed, only dabbed at like red wine on full carpet. Around the stunning white of the cloth, Jim can only watch the set expression of a daunting mask. Sometimes fingers get in his line of sight and Jim can inspect small callouses of labor. The hands are surprisingly smooth despite them, and no scars seem to mar their fair features despite the appearance of the rest of what is evident to be a rather weathered owner. Pain fades as layer after layer of toad green tar is dabbed off and has disappeared in the folded creases of the cloth.

Jim had forgotten that the others lay waiting, tense and fearful in the backdrop, until Spock moves beside him, coiled like a spring should the need arrive to leap between Jim and this threat in anything less than a Vulcan heartbeat. The alien has enough initiative to notices the stare down Spock is inciting, and judging by the icy body language, there's a piercing glare awaiting Jim's first behind colored timber.

"_Melia ax he vexpuan imbru,_" the forerunner barks to the horde that still waits in the trees. "_Dojus pin ston nue kanthim rekk cour._" As far as Jim can tell Spock and his new friend haven't broken eye contact.

"What's he saying? Where's the translator?" Jim fumbles for the box Spock carries religiously on their away missions. The thing hasn't made a peep since they touched down on the surface but the buttons still blink peacefully as Jim lifts it up to scrutinize. It's certainly still on, but it makes no move of acknowledgement. Spock moves around the tangle Jim's knotted him up in with the translator's strap to peer down at the face of the little, black box. He makes a thoughtful noise.

With the forerunner's words comes two of the shadows solidifying. They break from the trees and step on legs -legs, knees, ankles, toes- into the clearing. They come smoke silent and the wires of their bows slacken. Notched arrows drop as archers return weapons to their homes jutting over stiff backs. They're not barefoot, Jim notices, they wear some strange cousin of a boot that laces up to their knees and something close enough to a sock to call a sock. They don masks as well, sharp, wooden concealment that tucks perfectly across their chins and hides their face from sight. Jim can feel their eyes behind the beady curves of the mask boring into him.

The two new beings cautiously stalk across the clearing on their human legs towards the bushes where the Brussels sprout still resides. They coo at the bush as they approach as if talking to a corned animal, humming and whispering and dropping down in squats as not to appear large. Jim watches with fascination as the two warriors prod through sheets of greenery. One of the fighters pull back the curtain of branches and as the little stump comes into sight, it shudders to a stop once more. The men continue to hum and whisper even as the shrub shifts, clearly uncomfortable with their presence.

Can plants even be uncomfortable?

"I have a mind to make that stump part of a fruit kabob." Jim sighs, and explains to Spock, who's lifting a brow at him curiously, "That would be my attacker."

Spock has some formula or dictionary flashing behind his eyes. As he thinks, he watches the warriors work, and Jim turns his attention back to them. They two masked mysteries settle the vegetable down from its panic like one would coax a stray into a meal. The going is slow at first, but eventually fingers get closer and the bloated weed rocks along to their lullaby. The stump finds itself betrayed as the comforting hands swipe fast and nip the wiry leaves from its rump. As one of the warriors leap away from the shrub's wrath with his trophy of blades in tow, the other barks at the stump.

"_Heuch,_" the warrior laughs, "_hicure!_"

The Brussels sprout is content turning its attack towards the louder enemy, hissing and spitting from within a deep, hidden throat. The two warriors retreat back into the clear field, letting the branches snap back into place and create a barrier between them and the feisty sprout, claiming a victory. Jim glances back as the two warriors weave through his crew and hand the leaves off to the forerunner who tucks them in the folds of his pack. The soiled cloth stays wrapped around the last three knuckles of the hand that holds it.

"It appears the translator doesn't recognize this language." The box squawks as Spock tinkers with the knobs, eyes flashing down to examine it as he mostly watches the forerunner and his warriors. After a beat he glances to Jim. "Perhaps Lieutenant Uhura will have some input on interpretation."

The warriors do not leave the forerunner's side, holding their ground like rustic guardians. They peer with the intensity of divinity, hawk-eyeing every subtle movement either Jim or Spock makes. They parrot each other movements as they seem to step between Jim and his crew and the strange puzzle of a being who doesn't seem to notice the bodily protection the other men willingly offer. Jim feels just a tad unsettled under their gazes. It makes him grin.

Movement catches Jim attention as, behind the guard dogs, the forerunner reaches back behind his head with both arms, cloth coming too, elbows crooking out as he unties his mask. It falls lax against his chest as the knot comes undone with a simple tug from forefinger and thumb. Off it falls into the forerunner's waiting hands where it's then lifted once more up to eye level and admired by the man. A man is all that waits behind the mask. Jim doesn't know what he expected -well, that's not exactly true, he'd made some internal bet on pig teeth and fly eyes- but now he sees nothing extraordinary.

The curve of a nose, the peck of lush lips, the bristle of two days gone unshaven, the crescent moon of ears hidden under tufts of short, raven-feather hair. On the surface, there is nothing alien about the forerunner. He has no Vulcan arches, no Orion-green tint or alien extremities. It would almost be boring, but it's really not.

The only thing that doesn't bear to be human is his eyes: green-copper, almond-shaped and rimmed with thick, inky lashes. They narrow into slits like the walls of deep caves, for although they appear human in every way, there is an unspeakable depth and intelligence to them that would rival a Vulcan's. If this man is as old as his eyes suggest than he looks good for his age.

Jim can hear Spock thinking.

Proper introductions are in order, Jim figures.

"My name is James T Kirk of the USS _Enterprise_ and this is my first officer, Spock of Vulcan, and my crew." Jim watches the forerunner and his friends for any flash of recognition. "We come in peace. We're actually on a voyage now. We're explorers, you see, from Earth. We're hoping to get to know your planet, your, ah, civilization." Jim feels rather sweaty under that unblinking stare. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"_Faitus eroire lelle hetto hor set stonlu oe dek_?"

"Yeah, I thought so," Jim sighs.

"_Quex rro tsura?_" one of the guardians asks quietly, "_Ennki forbun_?"

As the strangers rattle on in their leaves-in-the-wind language, Jim turns his attention solely on Spock. Just behind Spock the other forest dwellers have abandoned their defensives as the three in the open appear in harmony with the strangers. They step on light feet into the clearing and some follow suit of the forerunner, removing their masks to reveal normal, human faces.

"You said something about Uhura?"

"Yes, Captain." Spock nods, "I believe if any member aboard the _Enterprise _has the proper capabilities to render us with a respectable adaption she would be the one to do so."

"You have a lot of faith in her," Jim smiles.

"She was top of her class in xenolinguistics." Spock amended, "She is very capable."

Jim's CMO comes bumbling to his side, late to the party as usual. He fixes the warriors with a sour, untrusting face and shakes off his look of displeasure as he turns to peer at his captain. He jerks to an ungraceful stop almost a full foot away from Jim and Spock, as far as possible away from the strangers, while still staying within range for a chat.

He says, "Captain, maybe it's not wise to mingle."

"Mingle, Dr. Holman?"

Dr. Harvey Holman is an uncomfortable man with too-short legs and an ear for bad music and distasteful conversation. He slinks and he slimes and he gets too involved, but he's a very good doctor and good for a very interesting tease. He's a rat of a fellow with a bad habit of talking with the front of his teeth and the tip of his nose. He has the eyes of a sore winner, the thin lips of a worrier, and the crooked nose of a man who stuck it where it didn't belong one too many times. Jim likes the man decently, but not enough to seek him out.

"I mean," Dr. Holman clears his throat and swallows a lump, "maybe we shouldn't linger with these… men." Maybe the natives understand more English than they let on, or perhaps Dr. Holman's tone was more obvious than what suits, but the forerunner raises an almost comical brow at their conversation.

Jim pulls his lips tight, "C'mon, Dr. Holman, don't tell me you're not even a tiny bit interested."

"Captain, Starfleet regulation states that we're not supposed to interfering with underdeveloped civilizations under any circumstances-"

"Isn't it Spock's job to quote regulations at me?" Jim grins, "And we're not _interfering_, we're… surveying. In very… _convenient_ proximities."

The doctor shoots the forerunner a look and turns once more to look Jim over. The native catches the glance and meets it head on for as long as Harvey allows him, then the stranger shifts and retreats to the shallows of the beautiful pond only a handful of small steps away to wash his hands. Jim watches him go, watches nimble fingers tie the mask up in knots around his pack's strap, letting it dangle and smack against his outer thigh with each step. The native kneels before the pool, knee dipping into the sand as he soaks his cloth under the crystal surface, rubbing it clean and wringing it dry.

The two guardians stay watch, examining Jim's gaze on the forerunner. One steps between Jim and his line of sight. Jim frowns.

The field is now rather crowded with strange natives who gaze at Jim and his crew with a mix of a curious, friendly air and something like a warning. They keep their distance while they watch, crooking their heads just a tilt as they cautiously step the invisible line between their side of the clearing and Jim and his crew's. Now there's eight of them all together, including the forerunner by the pond.

"Spock, get Uhura on the com," Jim orders, talking around Holman's examining prods. "Let's see if she has any theories on this language barrier." He hops up on one foot as he talks and shimmies off his boot and soon, its twin and the socks follow. He fumbles back onto both feet and nods, "I'll see if I can get her a sample."

"Captain, where are you going," Spock sighs as Jim jumps out into the sand, burying his toes in the cool crumbs. "Captain, you can't just-"

Jim slops into the water like a toddler, ankles splashing into the surface as he makes his way to stand in front of the forerunner. Jim enjoys the feel of the chilled water between his toes much how he liked the feel of soft, roasting sand. The water doesn't feel as extraordinary as it looks, but it's definitely clean and healthy. Under the ripples his entrance has caused, Jim can see little, silver, bobble-headed fish with scales nipped gold and eyes sunken in. He can see something that resembles a crab only with ten more legs and the size of the pad of Jim's thumb skittering just behind his heel. It's all very odd, but Jim's used to odd, and he misses the ocean shores back on Earth.

Jim approaches the forerunner peacefully, wafting close enough that the water has drowned the hem of his pants and bled up past his ankles. He notices the dip of the underwater dropout nearby and becomes wary. It doesn't stop him from slipping on a suave smile and sliding his way to the forerunner's side. The native doesn't look up to watch his arrival, but Jim can tell the man knows he's there by the lock in his shoulder blades and the stiffness in his slow movements. The crowd on the beach is watching their exchange closely, waiting for one wrong move to begin a war. Jim waits for something bad himself, but only for a beat.

"So, you wanna tell me about the cactus in the bushes over there and why it spit on me?" Jim asks, "'Cause, I mean, it would make everything so much easier if, by some odd and bizarre chance you just knew English."

The forerunner tries his marks at a conversation, speaking in his own, light language and making careful movements with his wet hands. Droplets of the water melt off of him, collecting at the tips of his fingers like chandelier diamonds. The cloth is tucked away in the native's pack as he finishes his irritated drawl and he tips the bag's strap off his shoulders and lets it settle in the sand. Jim can't make out anything the man said, but the tone suggested a complaint or some vague insult. The captain wonders if there's a universal sign for 'we come in peace' that didn't originate from a classic film.

"Captain," Spock breaks in, stepping on the edge of the shore as he hands his com off to Jim, "I have Uhura on the line."

"Captain Kirk," the com sighs, "you and the crew have only been down there for half an hour, I can't even begin to imagine what kind of trouble you've gotten up to. I think Spock and I should arrange an intervention for you allergy to regulation and regrettably consistent objection to protocol."

"Lieutenant Uhura," Jim chirps back, "I have no idea to what you are inferring. My respectable crew and I are well mannered and well aware of the restrictions and guidelines Starfleet has constructed for us." He can almost hear her rolling her eyes. "But, it seems we've run into intelligent life on our little mission."

"And, let me guess, you're intervening."

"Exploring."

"Intruding."

"Investigating."

"Meddling."

"Doing research." Jim proclaims, "And there's a golden ticket in here for you somewhere if you can keep any other more pessimistic descriptions on the down-low."

"Pessimistic." Uhura scoffs, but settles in nonetheless. "What is it you need, Captain?"

"Translations, Lieutenant. It seems our universal translator isn't as universal as we'd like to think." Jim says, "I think translating an undiscovered language all by yourself would be an excellent opportunity to get a valuable mark of credit on your record."

"Capt-"

"I bet you'll get awards for this."

"Captain Kirk-"

"Your face up in lights."

"Captain Kirk, I-"

"Your name in big letters, known all across the universe as the goddess of space and-"

"_Captain_ Kirk."

"What?"

"You _have_ my attention, now will you get me a sample of the language so I can get started."

"Well, hold on a sec while I put someone on the line." Jim grins and he can see Spock roll his eyes in the corner of his vision as he holds the flip phone out to the closest native, the forerunner, who indignantly flinches away and sets the rest of his warriors cross. They gather closer together, moving in unison two steps forward and one step back when the forerunner sets his arm out sideways and straight, palm to them, in a silent order. He scrutinizes the box darkly and breaths through the teeth of his loosened jaw. His stare lift and drag up Jim's arm, scraping up to meet his eyes heavily. His eyelashes graze together as he narrows his eyes.

"I've got everything setup here to record, Captain." The box says, and the forerunner's eyes snap right back to its sleek, golden surface. The look in his eyes should be fear and a vague confusion, but Jim sees neither of these flicker across the hardened gaze. Jim waits for them to make their appearance.

"Very good, Lieutenant." Jim says, but his eyes linger on the native, watching a hundred thoughts swamp and flare across his alien mind and the captain admires the snap of decluttering that is there, taking place, and gone like the wings of a hummingbird. "Now, should I make introductions or do you want to skip the small talk and get straight to introducing the entirety of a complex and uncharted race into society?"

"Captain," Spock scolds from the bank, "maybe it is best to recover a sample for the Lieutenant so we may continue the process of maneuvering around this language barrier. To linger long on this topic would be meaningless and disfavoring."

"Of course, Spock."

One of the warriors behind Jim and the forerunner's meeting peers through the slits of their mask and whispers suspiciously, "_Chihra raijice quex rro sra?_"

"_Jecior rouv,_" the forerunner responds under his breath, "_Sodi, nue zehx illis fainid odex pintiw._"

"That's beautiful," Uhura murmurs around them. "It sounds like bedtime sheets."

"Like _what_?"

"_Boarter dek lelle rro sra illis?_" a different faceless man asks in a hushed cobweb of words within his line of copy and paste men.

"_Jecior rouv,_" says the forerunner again. His gaze has yet to stray from Jim's eyes, except to study the communicator like he's about to take a test on it. When their eyes clash once more, green on gold on deep-end-of-the-pool blue, Jim flashes his teeth in a great, impeding grin that sets what appears to be a permanent, rattled look of bewilderment and alarm on the native's face.

"Is that enough, Lieutenant?" Jim beams.

"That's plenty, Captain." Uhura responds after a beat, where silence is only head at bay by the bleeps and flutters of the _Enterprise_ at work. "I can make do with this, I just need some time."

"I can give you time, Lieutenant." Jim nods.

Uhura hums in acknowledgment and notes, most likely to herself, "I can't distinguish much," the sample is playing softly in the background like a lullaby, "but the words a very familiar, almost like the cousin of something I've heard before."

"Do you have any theories?"

"A few." Uhura tells him, "And some hope that I can make something out of this sooner or later. I'll get right to work."

"Good luck, Lieutenant. Kirk out."

The forerunner steps forward as Jim is announcing his goodbye and pocketing his device. His approach inflicts stiffness in the men and women that still spot over the beach. This does not go unnoticed by the forerunner and to counter, he hums richly, as the natives had done with the spitting pineapple.

"_Fascinating_."

It clicks with Jim and he hums back, smooth and tranquil, and all at once every being on the sand can release the breath they didn't realize they were holding. Closer now, the native has made it into the water and dips his feet in until the bottom of his boots have been swallowed up and the hem of the loose, close-enough-to-cotton pants just barely skim the water. He steps again and another five or so inches of the bottoms soak up like a sponge.

Most everyone on dry land has relaxed and just watches their interactions curiously now, and Jim wants to pat himself on the back. He's sure he's done good. Whatever is slithering around his ankle, though, is not good. Not good at all. And he only now notices it and its slimy gills and rock-rough fins and he only figures it's too late to look down and evaluate whatever demonic soul has latched itself to him when he feels teeth sink into his heel, knife through warm butter fast. He stumbles in a mix of panic and shock, slipping on algae, or perhaps some other strange creature, as he bucks himself off balance and straight into the native who had only _just_ began to trust him. He, unfortunately, bowls them both into the water.

The little snake of a fish releases his grip on Jim's foot as soon as it realizes how big its choice of prey is and books it the hell out of dodge after the ruckus his hoped meal causes really hits home. Part of Jim is a little bitter that he couldn't get his fingers around the little toad, but most of Jim is completely lost in the beauty of the top of the pond that now lays above him like a silver sky. He's fallen into the trench and below him is five or six stories worth of an underwater ecosystem and above him rests the crest that marks the end of the water and the beginning of something just as exotic. Jim can't breathe. Mostly because he's drowning, he's sure. For the longest moment, Jim rests somewhere between the two contrasting worlds, floating in a water so crystal clear that he's certain he will tumble and fall any second now.

With an arch of his arms, Jim pulls himself up to the surface. With two strokes of his hands in the creamy surface, Jim makes it back to the ledge and scrambles up, toes still dipped under the water, and just a little wetter than the rest of him. He can't help but laugh at the look of outrage that etches over the forerunner's face as he lifts himself out of the water and scrambles out of the trench, bristling like a cat. His hair mats down, his eyes lashes clump together and thick droplets slink down his forehead and his chin and the tip of his nose.

It's a little more awkward when he turns to share the laugh with his crew and finds the natives so ready to knock him full of arrows that Jim can only silently query as to what held them back.

"_Uttent!_" the forerunner barks as he lumbers to steady himself, "_Fainid hent._" The warriors still at their friend's words, stuttering in their movements for only long enough for Jim to gulp before the grips on their blows slacken once more and their arrows are buried back in their homes.

Through the messy waterfall that slowly begins to falter from his sight, Jim makes eye contact with a tense and calculative Spock. Spock meets his gaze with a parenting look, something akin to a silent scolding that sparks both a dark humor and an irrational fear in the captain. He swallows and shrugs, offering a brash, baby of a smile to the fuming Vulcan.

Jim calmly holds a hand out to the bent-over native, setting it out a quarter of a foot from his face and the eyes of the man lift coldly to follow the tips of his fingers up, up, up to meet his eyes again. The alien blinks and then, moving coaxingly slow, puzzles his fingers around Jim's wrist, and as the crevices of their hands line up, settling into each other, warm and comfortable, Jim allows himself a moment to relish in the way the lifelines that run across their palms fit together wonderfully. He likes the spark of their fingers locking together as Jim pulls him to his feet. The forerunner retracts his fingers as soon as he's right up again, slipping his hand out of the glove of contact and choosing instead to run the paw through his hair to flick the lick of mop from his eyes. His gaze drops as he moves to trudge back to the sand.

Whatever bit him, Jim now takes note, has long since fled, but he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of it, scurrying off on husky legs like a centipede, to bury itself under the rocks again.

Jim and the sopping native stumble back to shore, heavy and miserably wet, and as soon as they reach the sand the forerunner gathers up the things he left on the beach and parts from Jim's side to join his wave of warriors. They close in on him just as he's swinging his bag back over his shoulder and fawn over his soaked body with huddled whispers and grunts. The leader now looks a lot more independent and steady in the midst of familiar faces, but he still glances back once more at Jim from around the friends that gather around him.

Spock raises one, solitary eyebrow at his captain. Jim huffs and shakes his shoulders nonchalantly as he settles back at his first's side. He keeps flickering his attention back to the group of strangers, watching with interest as whomever had refrained from removing their masks so far has removed them now to get a better look at their forerunner. Around their leader's shoulder, some are now peering quizzically at the foreigners.

"Captain," Spock says, "perhaps a more tactful approach is in order."

"Of course, Spock." Jim wipes at his brow with the back of his soggy sleeve. He catches how the look of interest that trials the natives is mirrored in the many faces of the _Enterprise_. The crew is cautiously stepping forward, moving up to integrate into the crowd of warriors, peering at them just as curiously as their desire for answers outweighs their desire for safety, and in that moment, Jim couldn't wish for a better team of men and women to travel the universe with.

The two groups make oil and vinegar contact as they creep closer. They are all cautious, almost to a fault, as they lead on to brush gazes and subtly admire the way hair stands and the curve of fingertips that mirror their own in a bizarre twist of fate.

It's one of the natives who makes first contact, as one of the littler men, perhaps in his late teens, in the back, with slim muscles and boney shoulders, cocks his head on his pencil neck and allows his mask to settle on the floor as he crouches and steps around his familiars until he is no longer among them. When he reaches out again the tension spikes and heads snap over to stare and bore at the boy as he reaches out to a stray dog of an ensign. The woman his gaze as focused upon only hesitates momentarily under a smile that could give Chekov a run for his money before she reaches back. As their fingers bump, slip and then grip one another in a firm greeting, shoulders relax and lips twitch skywards at the promising possibility of coexisting.

When the natives realize that Jim and his crew bring nothing but offers of peace and mean them no harm, all tension and stiffness seems to evaporate into something more amiable. Trust gets the crew close to the aliens, and hands begin to stray further from weapons and closer to strangers as the two groups blend and mold. Jim's crew actually seem to revel in the attention. Their eyes and mouths open wide as they hastily beat through an explanation for their existence that falls on perplexed ears and baffled minds that can only puzzle at their babbling language and offer their own in soft, brook-babble words.

Half a dozen feet and some change separate Jim, Spock and Dr. Holman from the historical merging of two contrasting societies as they talk. Jim glances once more to the forerunner, who's found himself closer to the back of his herd, before turning to Spock to watch him watch the crew.

"Captain, the Prime Directive states-"

"Yes, Spock, I know. Can't interfere. But, we're not exactly interfering if we stick around and explore, are we?" Jim says, "I mean, they've already seen us, haven't they? There's nothing we can do about that. What damage does it cause if we just take a peek at their society and culture? For educational purposes, of course." None of the natives approach Jim, but they acknowledge him with brief smiles and nods when their gazes catch his.

Spock narrows his eyes, his lips twitching downwards in a frown, "We did not consider this planet would be occupied with intelligent life."

Jim crosses his arms over his chest and buckles down. "And, it would probably do more harm than good if we transported back to the _Enterprise_ right now, in front of them, than if we, I don't know, maybe followed them home?"

"Captain, if we should hinder this species from their natural cultural evolution there is a great chance you will be court-martialed." Spock reminds him, "To introduce our superior knowledge, strength, or technology to a society incapable of handling such advantages would devastate not only their primitive civilization, but also the peace on their planet."

"Now you're just quoting textbooks at me."

"Perhaps," Spock sighs, "this time, Jim, the benefits do not outweigh the costs."

"That's what I was saying earlier." Dr. Holman has the balls of his palms on his hips. He nervously twitches at his pockets when Jim turns to look at him. "It's our moral obligation not to contaminate this planet, as the Prime Directive would put it."

"But, think about it boys! A brand spanking new planet, undiscovered, unindexed, full of untold tales and unheard theories that _we_ could be the first to investigate!" Jim exclaims, "Think about this language! A language unheard by any ears of Starfleet! Uhura will be known through history books for translating an entire language! Think about all of the unexposed cultures and religions! Spock, think about the history of this planet, that's never been told! And Harvey, what about the medical practices? There's bound to be so many new and exciting ideas that could renew and restart understanding in our own little world! This is what we joined Starfleet for, wasn't it? To explore strange, new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, and all that jazz?"

Spock considers Jim's arguments like a pending machine. His eyes click as his mind ticks away instantly, and in the spark of his gaze, Jim can see an examination of information take place. Momentarily, Spock has his retort, and it emerges in the form of thinning lips and the clack of teeth as he says, "An interesting observation, Captain, but do you really think pursuing these desires would be the correct response to our situation at this moment?"

Dr. Holman, on the other hand, seems to be on the correct side of convinced. He licks his lips with a miry, pink tongue and sucks a deep breath through his nostrils and slowly says, "Well, these natives aren't cavemen. They're not exactly stupid, I mean, look at the way they admire our crew. Not as strange, scary sorcerers, but just as simple strangers. They show no fear in the face of information, like an underdeveloped society would. I think there's more to these people than meets the eyes, and maybe this type of unique intelligence is something we've overlooked in our travels."

"C'mon, Spock," Jim claps his friend on the shoulder and smiles coaxingly, "What's the worst that can happen?"

Somewhere, off in the distance, a flock of birds take flight in a fit of hysterics, their caws and bellows chiming high and long on the breeze. The clearing falls brittle and silent. Every native's head has snapped over to scope the tips of trees and the black chips of birds as they escape into the blue-green of the sky. The sound of listening is deafening.

Jim is taken aback by the stiffness in the forerunner's voice as he marks himself into attention. He barks quiet orders and the natives rush as one to gather their masks from wherever they lay and replace them securely on their faces, each one disappearing behind the gruesome curves of carved wood as their disguises find home. The forerunner hasn't moved to unknot the laces of his mask from his bag. He is the only solid as the rest of the natives simmer back into the forest lines, becoming second shadows to the forest, and Jim's crew leaps back to wherever they feel safer.

The forerunner stays. His eyes snap to Jim like he's found magnetic north and they linger. He reaches out, palm up, fingers stretched, and although the length of the pond separates them, Jim can already feel himself closing the distance, reaching forward despite Spock's protests. The hand the native displays offers a promise of an adventure Jim has yet to take, it grants the whispers of hidden knowledge, it suggests a hint of a great opportunity, and Jim is enthralled at the lottery chance to be the one to take it. So he takes it.

-o-

_**Ren tarller**_ _[ren tahr-lur]_ go slow

_**Genoil, maa saumic**__ [jen-oil, mah saw-mik]_ careful, my friend

_**Chihra raijice* jeahb slyat ghortii dek**__ [chee-heer-ah rahy-jahys jehb slahyt gohr-tee dek]_ (I have heard stories about these people*)

_**Obeffre**__ [oh-biv-free]_ watch out

_**Melia ax he vexpuan** imbru**__ [mel-ee-ah aks hee veks-pyoo-n im-broo]_ gather/get leaves from the vexpuan**

_**Dojus pin ston nue kanthim rekk cour**__ [doh-juhs pin stahn nyoo kan-thim rek khor]_ I will need to make an antidote back home

_**Heuch**__ [hech]_ hey

_**Hicure**__ [hee-kyoo-r]_ over here

_**Faitus eroire lelle rro hetto hor*** set stonlu oe dek**__ [fey-tuh-s ee-rohr lel roh het-oh hohr set stohn-loo oi dek]_ what do you suppose this idiot*** is going on about

_**Quex rro tsura**__ [qweks roh tsoo-rah]_ who are they

_**Ennki forbun**__ [en-kee fawr-bugn] /slang/_ could they be dangerous

_**Chihra raijice quex rro sra**__ [chee-heer-ah rahy-jahys qweks roh shur-rah]_ who are these people

_**Jecior rouv **__[jee-kyoo-r rohv]_ I don't know

_**Sodi, nue zehx illis fainid odex pintiw**__ [soh-dee, noo seks il-iz fahy-nid oh-deks pin-too] _but, they don't seem to be a threat

_**Boarter dek lelle rro sra illis**__ [bohr-tur dek lel roh shur-rah il-iz]_ what are they talking about

_**Uttent**__ [yoo-tent]_ hold

_**Fainid hent**__ [fahy-nid hent]_ don't shoot

*as there is no direct English translation for 'raijice', I can only illustrate the word as being the feeling you get when you see a face in a crowd and feel like you recognize it from somewhere. 'Raijice' is used to describe familiar strangers.

**translated directly, vexpuan means 'spitting stump', which would be the creature that spit at Jim. There will be more on the vexpuan in the index at the end.

***'hor' does not translate directly to 'idiot', but dances more along the feel of 'fool' or 'infant'. It is hardly used as a firm insult, but more often used for a mother scolding their child or friends to friends as it is more endearing than biting. In the scenario that Bones used the word, it is more of a poke-fun than anything else.


End file.
